


no more lonely nights.

by ffomixam



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety Attacks, M/M, McBeardy, No Linda, Reunions, Swearing, hints of depression, no nothing, no wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 21:28:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18352061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ffomixam/pseuds/ffomixam
Summary: It’s 1974, four years after the tumultuous breakup of The Beatles, Paul McCartney spends most of his time alone at his farm in Scotland. One night; an old friend who he hasn’t seen for years reappears and, along with reminders of his solitude, memories resurface.





	no more lonely nights.

**Author's Note:**

> just testing the waters.

The howling winds and pelts of Scottish hail knocked forcefully against the old farmhouse windows, reminiscent of the drumming of a marching band Paul had once heard as a child. It was early in the evening an autumn night and it was pitch black outside. Only guided by the flickering lights on the walls; Paul made his way to the living room where the fireplace bloomed and a previously abandoned book waited for him, already open.

Paul sighed as he sat; his bones tired and weary from the long day’s labour on the farm. Tending the gardens and what little livestock he had weren’t necessary of him. He had the means to get hired help. It rather was something for him to do. To pass the time. To think or, on some days, not to.

He had been lucky. A storm had been looming on the horizon all day but the weather had only just turned to the worse after he had been done with work for the day and he just about had gotten inside. 

It was still an hour before he usually would start making dinner, and he felt no need to get up early; feeling completely relaxed in his old armchair with Martha resting soundly by his side, the fireplace crackling and the sound of rain hitting the roof.

It was almost an hour later when Paul turned the radio on and got up to go to the kitchen, that he heard a knock. And not a knock from the rain or the wind making the trees hit the house. But a knocking from the door. One that took him out of his habits, forcing him to go a different route to the kitchen; to that of the entrance hall.

Martha jumped to her feet and barked. It didn’t scare him. He was a grown man in his own house, damn it. The stray lines of flight from the living room being the only guide he had to the door, casting not at all paranoid shadows. He fumbled for the light switch and hesitantly made his way to the door. Who would visit him now?

He looked out the windows situated on the thick wooden door. Paul couldn’t tell if it was a man or woman from the slim posture. They had their back turned, hands in the pockets of a long woollen coat. Long brown hair was resting on the broad shoulders, wild from the wind. Paul felt his chest tightened as they turned and immediately opened the door. It swung with full force from the wind forcefully pushing it.

“John!” He breathed out in shock, and from the sudden cold. It was John. John Lennon. John, who hadn’t seen since that fateful day in 1970. When they ended The Beatles, and seemingly their friendship. It destroyed him. Sending him down spiralling into a pit he still hadn’t gotten out of. He shut himself off from the world after the debut of his first solo album. Went to Scotland with Martha in tow. Kept his beard long and avoided seeing people. It wasn’t something he was proud of. And not a situation he wanted to be in but he was stuck. Stuck and couldn’t get out.

“Hi, Macca,” was the response Paul received. All these years? And that’s the greeting he gets? One so casual? He supposed; that would he probably should’ve expected.

“Still got the dog, eh?” John scratched the side of his nose and pointed downward to Martha. The old girl was wagging her tail, happy to see an old friend. Though she didn’t move from her spot behind Paul, still guarding over her house and human. Paul stared at John, locked in place and unsure of what to do.

There was a long pause. Paul didn’t say anything, unsure of what to say or even do. John looking at him in silence, studying him.

The situation became stilted, awkward; Martha had long since lost her interest and walked back into the warm living room. John wrapped his arms around himself and looked to his feet, shortly, before looking up while saying; “Can I come in…?”

“I… yes, of course,” Paul coughed and moved to one side of the door, creating enough space for John to get by, and so he did. Paul’s heart was pounding in his chest, his thoughts running amuck. He glanced to his hands; they were shaking. He had to calm down, not wanting John to see the reaction he had gotten out of Paul.

He turned and closed the door, the wind making it hard to do so but in the end, Paul won that battle. He leaned slightly against the door and saw that John had shed his long coat, revealing a tight fitting long sleeved shirt. It was black and complimented his jeans well. Paul inhaled a shaking breath and tucked at his layered jumper.

John had his hands on his hips, both of them narrow and thin, and were looking around the small room. It wasn’t much, only serving as an entrance to the house and adjoining rooms. Paul felt tiny. Suffocating. Surprised and wholly unprepared for this sudden visitor.

John stopped and looked to Paul, “nice place ya got. Do you-”  Paul interrupted him with something almost of a whispered shout, “Why’re you here, John?” He took a step closer to the other man, still leaving a lot of space between them. His legs felt fragile, reminding him that of a newborn colt.

“What? I can’t visit my friend?” John said with a chuckle. Paul thought he sensed some nervousness but was unsure of it.

“Oh? Is that what we are? Could’ve fooled me,” Paul huffed and walked past John to the living room. Once there, he stopped in front of the fireplace and listened to the clanking of John’s boots as he followed. Paul took sharp intakes of breaths and tried to relax. Tried to remember what he had read in all those books. All those books on meditation and breathing exercises that in the end that jackshit.

“Really, Paul, I just want to talk,” he heard come from behind him. The shadow of John looming over him, cast from the various live lights in the room. Martha’s tail audibly wagged from her place near the armchair, the tail lashing the floor happily, celebrating the resurgence of her favourite human.

Paul turned, too quickly for his own tastes, and spat out; “What could we possibly have to talk about?” He crossed his arms, “didn’t you say enough four years ago?” He stared at John and he stared back, his eyes wide. “Not like you were any better!” John answered back in a huff.

Paul sighed and looked away, desperately wanting to go back to his peace and quiet. To his solitude and the numbing feeling it brought. He didn’t need this forceful reminder of the hole he had dug himself in. John was looking away as Paul glanced back at him, leaving him the chance to study his profile.

He looked slightly older. Thinner. His hair was longer, and glasses new. Of course, it had been four years, things change. They had to, and he had changed too. In ways, he probably couldn’t even tell himself.

Martha got up, shifting Paul’s attention from the increasingly tense atmosphere of the room. Of course, it wasn’t just dinner time for him. Martha usually would have her food by now too. She came closer and softly pushed the back of his hand with her wet snout. Paul sighed, “alright”, and left towards the kitchen.

Nothing was said from John, but Paul could hear him coming from behind him. Making a small train of Paul, Martha, and John. 

The kitchen was cold. At least colder than the living room, having no fireplace or lights on. That was quickly fixed as Paul made his way past the entrance and flicked the main switch. It illuminated the tiny room completely. The teal tile floor, white countertops and old appliances. It hadn’t been updated since he first moved in years ago.

“Paul,” he heard John whisper, he felt a painful prick in his chest. But ignored it as he bent down to focus on pouring food into Martha’s steel bowl. He checked the water bowl next to it; it was still full of fresh water from earlier that day. He patted Martha as he got up again, turned around and almost crashed into John. 

Paul closed his eyes and said nothing, but sighed; he resigned himself to sit in one of the old wooden chairs in the kitchen. John followed to stand close by, not sitting down. Paul looked up to him, feeling tired, and said; “If you want to talk… then talk.”

“I…” John hesitated and his eyes darted around the room, from Paul to Martha and back again. Was he unsure of what to say? Had he not come to fucking nowhere in Scotland with a purpose? With a single thing on his mind?

He crossed his arms and looked down, “...I’ve missed you, Paul.” He looked back up, pain visible in his eyes, “Honest.” Paul took a sharp intake of breath, his chest painfully beating against his skin. What should he say? What could he say? Of course, he had missed John too, painfully so. 

“Why? Why now?” He managed to say. “Why show up at my door after  _ four years _ ? With no phone calls or letters or  _ anything _ .” He shook as he stood up, looking to the blurring image of John.

“I didn’t know how!” John came closer. “What could I possibly have written or said?” There was a lot of hand motioning, expressing his points, “sorry for breaking up the band, anyway, are you up for brunch?” John chuckled, but there was no laughter, no joy, in it.

“And it’s not like I expected you to completely shut out the world!” He continued in a whisper, “and here I always thought I would turn into the recluse.” Jokes, joking, nothing had really changed, had it? Even in a serious, tense, moment like this; John had to be a fucking comic.

“Paul…” still a whisper, he looked to the aforementioned man. “I’m… lost, Paul. I... Yoko and I… separated. Her idea.” His arms were crossed, in a way hugging himself. “And when I first heard from George and Ringo about you… how there’s been no contact between you… I thought that maybe… Maybe you felt the same.”

Paul shook his head and wiped away the forming tears under his eyes. “I…” Paul paused, unsure of how to continue. It was true. He had had the same amount of contact with the other members of the band that he had with John. Though not from the lack of trying on their part.

He didn't have a television set. And rarely listened to anything but music on the radio. He had completely isolated himself. John was right, he came to realise. He was a recluse. And he was lost. Lost in this black hole he had become accustomed to calling life. The only company being Martha and his chickens.

“I do,” he finally managed to say. The beating in his chest had increased and he felt the pulsing sensation in his throat, ears, and just … everywhere. He felt lightheaded and like he was being weighed down, all at the same time.

John slowly nodded and came closer to Paul, carefully grazing his hand against Paul’s, wanting to hold them but not daring to. Martha gave a whimper and looked to both of them from her place at her bowls. “We’re hopeless,” he whispered, bumping his hand into John’s. And John chuckled, this time different from all the other times; “not at all.”

Paul’s stomach audibly groaned, breaking up the moment between the two men, causing both to laugh. It was freeing, Paul thought. He couldn’t remember the last time he laughed. But now, after having opened up to someone, someone who seemed to share what he felt; he could be slightly optimistic and foresee more laughter in the future. If this good mood lasted, that was.

“You hungry too?” He asked of John after having glanced down to his own stomach. “Think I got some leftover quiche in the fridge. Vegetarian.” He went past John, already missing the body heat he could feel from the small distance between them. “Sure.”

Taking the quiche out, there was enough for two still, and reheating it didn’t take long. The minutes spent in silence but for once one that was comfortable. Paul had turned around from the oven to see John playing with Martha. Petting her, his hands getting lost in the great mass of hair. Paul was content in looking on as the aroma of the savoury flan filled the room.

After all was ready; plates, beer, utensils, quiche; John and Paul sat around the table, each on the different sides of the rough wood. Martha had gone inside the living room, knowing not to beg. It didn’t take long before both dug into the food and as John took a sip of the bottle, Paul asked, “you said you and Yoko… separated?”

John swallowed hard, “Yes. Told me to spend some time with May Pang. Time to think and… whatnot.” Paul chuckled ever so slightly, “Right, to think… May. Girlfriend of yours?” John nodded with a slight grin, “it’s been... Good… Different. I’ve started seeing more of Julian too.”

“Good! That’s good,” Paul nodded and shifted slightly in his seat. He was happy for John, knowing that even before the… breakup of The Beatles, his relationship with his son was distant.  He sighed, this one more content, and they ate in silence for a little while longer before it was interrupted by John; “remember when we would sit in my room and listen to records of Elvis and West Side Story all day?”

“Yeah,” Paul smiled, “of course.”

“I miss that.”

“So do I.”

And then they continued to eating, both lost in pleasant memories this time around. Of singing along. Dancing along. Dancing together. Paul had always wished it had turned into more. Like in the movies. Dancing turning into… kissing, and that into more. But that was never to be. And not the kind of man either was anyway, or at least that’s what he had resigned to think after a decade with John and nothing else but comradery.

He must have looked down, with his thoughts turning grey, as John nudged his foot accompanied with a little ‘ _ hey _ ’. He looked through the spectacles, into his friend’s slender eyes. What were they doing? Yelling and tearing into each and then silently each, pleasantly(?), across from each other as if nothing had changed? As if nothing had happened?  

He shot up, the chair screeching, and muttered an, “I’m sorry,” and left the room.

“Paul!” His name was called from the kitchen and he heard the scraping of the chair’s legs as it was pushed out. His wrist was grabbed, not harshly but it still came with the sting from long missed physical contact. 

“What’s wrong?”

Paul breathed hastily and tried to remember the exercises; in, out, in, out. Deep breaths. God, he wished he hadn’t gotten rid of those bloody books. What was happening? He had to ground himself. He leaned up against a bookcase. John was there. Long hair covering his face partially as he was leaning slightly forward, looking worried. Worried for him, right. Deep breaths.

“It’s okay,” he managed to get out. “I’m okay.” His breathing was heavy, but calming down. Not too bad, all things considered. Something pushed him and he looked down; it was Martha. Who was on her feet and at his feet. He felt a touch on his shoulder; it was John, looking at him with narrowed eyes.

“You’re sure about that?” He was asked, and he breathed out a short laugh, “No, but I will be.”

He was dragged in an embrace. A hug. A hug? By John? Paul couldn’t recall them ever having hugged before. Physical touch never being big with them during The Beatles. It was nice. Warm. Startling but not bad. John was skinny. Thinner than him, and it could be felt especially through the embrace.

Paul laughed, feeling calm enough now for it,  “are  _ you _ okay?” 

John drew back and looked at him, wrinkles at the end of his eyes from smiling; “Yeah… yeah. May got me help. Therapy. And none of that screaming nonsense,” he chuckled. He took a step back and shrugged, “said to get more ‘in touch’ with my emotions.”

Paul slowly nodded and glanced away, “is that a reason for why you’re here? Other than what you’ve already said-”

“Yeah.”

_ Huh _ . Paul went to stand by the fireplace, yet again, looking at John on the way there. He supposed he was grateful for May. And the therapist, whoever that was. John came to stand by his side as they both looked into the now flickering fire. 

“John,” he glanced to the man behind him, instinctively wetting his lips as the heat of the fire got to him, “I… missed you too. I didn’t say it before… when you did. But I do... Did, y’know.” He shook his head lightly and looked away. 

He felt… brave. Or at least something like it. And slowly, but surely, he took a hold of John’s hand; remembering the moment earlier that evening. He felt John’s hand flex and expected it to be torn away, accompanied by yelling or… something. But it stilled and a sigh was let out. 

John whispered a reassurance, “we’ll be okay… It’ll be okay,” and rested his head atop of Pauls. 

**Author's Note:**

> had to kick Paul around a little, sorry.


End file.
